


Forget to Fall Down

by Arsenic



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2020-07-10 23:09:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19914298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/pseuds/Arsenic
Summary: Prohibition/Depression-AU. Ryan knows playing at a speakeasy is a bad idea. He wants to anyway.





	Forget to Fall Down

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Do not look for authenticity in this story. You won't find it. Also, I owe thanks to an epic crapton of people on this one, including, but not limited to, kaiz, amand_r, egelantier, rufus, and of course, to my faithful and awesome beta who deals with me, forsweatervests. Well, and kind of untappedbeauty, in a roundabout way.
> 
> _Written for ursula_lear for her generous contribution to the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society._

Spencer is against the idea from the start. Rationally, Ryan knows this means it's a bad idea. He's tired to death of being rational.

"We have jobs, Ryan," Spencer says, sounding exhausted, the way he always does nowadays.

And Ryan's most fatal flaw—even worse than the quixotic tendencies—has always been stubbornness. "That pay us barely enough to eat, let alone help with your family."

Spencer's jaw tightens. "But they pay us, and we eat. I know you've noticed there's a Depression happening. The bread lines are—"

Ryan knows. He knows, because he's tired too, of the way wind cuts through his clothes and his shoes are too tight, soles cracking. He knows because he's tired of getting into lines at the soup kitchen just a bit too late. He knows, but he's also idealistic. "It's a chance to play."

This, really, is the crux of the situation. Fifteen-hour days in the rubber factory are endurable only with the thought of music, of getting to play. Ryan long since had to sell his guitar, though, and Spencer never actually owned any drums, often begging practice time from one of their neighbors back before that family had sold everything to keep a roof over its head and food on the table.

Spencer's shoulders slump even further than they do regularly nowadays, so Ryan doesn't say anything else. Spencer says, with a resignation that turns Ryan's stomach, "It's illegal, Ryan. Even getting caught in a speakeasy could mean jail time. Playing...is just not worth that."

Ryan isn't sure he agrees, but Spencer's right about the risk, and as much as Ryan might want to make the decision for him, he won't. He says, "Okay, Spence," and stays silent the rest of the walk home, splitting from Spencer at the last moment to head back to the Hooverville in which he and his dad have managed to hold onto a space. Spencer's family still has an apartment, which Spencer regularly asks if Ryan would like to stay at, but the five of them are cramped enough in the one-bedroom tenement.

As he's walking away, Spencer calls, "Ryan."

Ryan turns back. Spencer hesitates, then says, "Get some sleep."

Ryan drags up a smile for Spencer, and tips him a wave before turning around again, continuing on his way.

*

The smell of moonshine penetrates Ryan's home—it's a crumbling structure of scrap wood and fabric, more than anything else—when he arrives. It is a testament to how much he misses playing that he's willing to go somewhere that will reek of it. Ryan rubs his hand over his face. He doesn't have enough to feed him and his father, not if the money he hid in his extra shirt is gone. He knows it is, knows his father hasn't actually made the money.

He wants to be angry, but he hasn't got the energy. He considers walking back to Spencer's place, but Spencer's bones show every bit as prominently as Ryan's. He'll go to a soup kitchen tomorrow and use this week's pay to buy food before his father can get hold of the actual cash.

In the meantime, he's neither desperate nor starving in his sleep, so he retreats into that, his only real escape now that music is unavailable, paper and pens a luxury of which Ryan can only dream. It's just as well, he's exhausted.

*

Two weeks later, Crystal begins coughing. She says it's nothing, just the cold air. She says when it warms again she will be fine. It's March, she reminds them, spring is not so far off. Ryan has always found March to be deceptive, a fence that spring can never quite jump. It's bad enough that they weren't able to keep the girls in school, watching her go pale and grow shadows around her eyes makes Ryan want to scream.

He keeps back the money he can to help Spencer out. He'd rather it go to taking care of Crystal than to his dad's habit. His dad will find a way to indulge, money or no.

There's not enough money for a doctor, though, and soon enough, Crystal is also running a fever.

Ryan can't help that he thinks about mentioning the club to Spencer again. It's a risk, but it's good money, at least compared to the factory. He has talked to Brendon about it a little, because they need Brendon for a real performance, need his voice and versatility. Ryan hasn't pushed though, because despite Brendon's silence on the issue, Ryan knows he's been kicked out of his family's home. He's fairly certain Brendon's living on the streets and Ryan thinks Brendon's concentration should be on surviving.

Still, Ryan wonders if maybe just the two of them could do it, could play a show, maybe a few, and make the money to get Crystal feeling better, and then maybe to find Brendon a roof, even if it's just paying money for space on someone's floor. Ryan knows that both he and Spencer have made Brendon come home with them on the really cold nights, the ones where they're both terrified he won't show back up to work in the morning. Ryan hates himself for wishing those nights would come more often. Brendon is warm against him as they sleep, and if it isn’t exactly the safe warmth Ryan gets when he cuddles with Spencer, it is something as valuable.

The morning Spencer shows up at the factory with red eyes and desperation in every line of his body, Ryan tells Brendon, "I'm going to do it. I'm going to play a show."

Brendon, the traitor, rats Ryan out to Spencer who says, "She's my sister. You're not risking prison for my sister."

"No," Ryan agrees. "I just want to do this." It's mostly true.

Spencer's fists clench and open over and over until he says, "Well, then, you're not doing it on your own."

Ryan is only a little ashamed of himself then for not arguing. That's fine; he'll have all the time in the world for it, later.

*

The club is not completely underground, but it's about as close as one can get without being in the sewers. It's in the basement of a brownstone in what was probably a good neighborhood before the Crash. The instruments are a bit worn, but well-kept, and the owner, Pete, is clearly excited about having new talent. "My piano guy, he's fantastic, but he needs a break now and then, you know?"

Ryan feels the look Spencer and Brendon share behind him, knows they're thinking of fifteen-hour days and accidents that take limbs, if not lives, and the idea of what a break might be like. Ryan looks straight ahead at Pete and nods.

Pete offers them drinks. Ryan refuses and he's relieved, if not surprised, when the others do as well. It's kind of them. Half-heartedly, he says, "You can, you know?"

Spencer rolls his eyes. "Because coming home smelling of moonshine would go over so well. Are you looking to get me killed?"

Brendon looks like he's thinking about it, though, and Ryan can't really blame him. Brendon's worse off in a lot of ways than either of them, and Ryan gets the part where it's an easy escape. It doesn't make him like it any more, but he has enough compassion to know he's kind of a jerk for judging. In the end, though, Brendon's distracted by the piano.

Ryan takes a breath before letting himself touch the guitar, reminding himself he has to leave it there at the end of the night. Once he's got his hands on it, though, he feels whole in a way he hasn't in so long. He knows it's not worth everything, not worth Spencer and Brendon's safety, but for a moment, it feels that way.

Their first set has kinks to it. They haven't played together in a while, and Brendon can sometimes get ahead of Ryan, Spencer trying to balance them out. But five or so songs in they've caught their rhythm, and Ryan doesn't know how he's going to leave, going to return to reality.

At the end of the night, Pete gives them their take—two percent of entrance fees for the evening—and Spencer gasps. Ryan smiles, fierce and happy. He says, "Doctor," handing half of it to Spencer. He gives Brendon the other half. Brendon gives half of his to Spencer and tries to give a little to Ryan, but Ryan's having none of it. "Just promise me we can do it again."

Spencer's expression is dark, and even Brendon seems pretty unsure, but Ryan _needs_ this, he can't not come back, and something on his face must speak to the fact, because after a moment, Spencer says, "Sure, Ry. After Crystal's better."

Ryan can tuck the memory of this night in a secret corner of his mind, available to nobody but him. He can use the memory as a way to get through the endless hours of the day, to ignore the lingering cold of the night. He can wait.

*

Ryan knows he only gets the return trip on account of Spencer feeling like he owes Ryan. Crystal's gotten healthy with the aid of the extra money and Spencer would have kept his promise, even if she hadn't. That she has just makes the promise that much more binding.

It's not that Spencer and Brendon didn't enjoy themselves, but Spencer's not foolhardy enough to consider the risks worth it and Brendon has a policy of listening to Spencer, since his own judgment is widely acknowledged to be untrustworthy. As such, it's Ryan's fault they go back.

As such, it's Ryan's fault they're there when the police raid the club.

*

Ryan doesn't understand what's happening at first, because in the beginning few moments, there's just an undercurrent of panic, a spike in temperature, a bitter swallow of adrenaline, before someone shouts, "Raid," and everything becomes chaos: the sound of wood cracking as chairs and tables break in the rush to get out is strangely loud, given the amount of screaming, the noise of the sirens. People are running in every direction, no sense of purpose other than escape, women's fancy night-out shoes are everywhere, discarded either due to impracticality or simply because they've fallen off. Ryan whips around, then, to where Spencer is trying to get free of the drum set and before he even knows what he's doing he's got Brendon by the arm, is pulling Spencer free and dragging them both to the door and pushing them out. He's trying to get the guitar off him—it will make running nearly impossible—when they're separated, and Ryan gets lost for several long seconds in the crush of people escaping, his ankle twisting under him as the force of people buffeting him each way overcomes his strength.

When he has space he tries his best to run, but the ankle gives way almost immediately and Ryan bites his cheek to distract himself from the pain, to force himself to keep going.

He's not fast enough, of course. As the police cuff him and lead him outside with others, all he can hope is that Brendon and Spencer made it. He's not entirely sure what he's going to do if they didn't.

*

The cell Ryan's shoved into is even colder than outdoors. Twenty or so others are packed in with him, so he imagines it will warm up, at least. He sinks down against the wall and curls up as best he can. Spencer and Brendon aren't in his cell. There might be others, but Ryan thinks it's a good sign.

Most of the people who could afford to be at the club can also make bail, so by early morning, the cell is down to him and three others. Ryan wonders if his dad even notices he's missing. Not that it matters, there's nothing to be done but to await trial. Ryan isn't certain how a criminal charge is made, or how to defend himself against it, if he _has_ a defense, having been caught.

Ryan knows when he doesn't show up at the factory his job will be lost. By extension this means that in the event he can get himself out of going to jail, he has no way to support himself. The uneasy thought that prison might be his best option does cross Ryan's mind. The damp cold of the cell has permeated his entire body by this time, making his muscles tense and the pain in his ankle flair. He misses the days when schoolwork was his biggest worry. He closes his eyes and does his best to just not think.

*

It's a couple of days before formal charges are brought against Ryan for several counts of violation of the Jones Act. Ryan's too busy being glad to be in the warm courthouse, too sore and tired to really pay attention.

The next day, however, he gets a visitor. When Ryan reaches the visiting area, Spencer and Brendon are sitting there and Ryan hasn't realized he was still worried until this moment, when all the concern seems to rush out of him, leaving him a bit giddy. Spencer doesn't return Ryan's grin, and Brendon's return smile is much smaller than Brendon is capable of.

"Hi," Ryan says, and forcibly swallows down a cough. He doesn't want them to worry. Everything is fine, now. Ryan's the one who got them into this mess in the first place; he can handle the consequences.

Spencer looks pissed, which is kind of disappointing, since Ryan hasn't had anyone to talk to at all for a couple of days, but Brendon says, "We, uh, we tried to find a lawyer."

Ryan blinks at this bit of information. Spencer narrows his eyes. "Oh, I see. You get to help out with my sister and all, but when it comes to me helping you—"

"Spence," Ryan says, because that's not it at all. "Crystal didn't do anything to get herself sick."

Spencer's eyes go wide at that, and Brendon tilts his head a bit before asking in an off-kilter tone, "You think you deserve this?"

Ryan rubs his arms; he can't help it. His clothes, which were never that much protection against chilliness, have started feeling damp, which is only making him colder. "I think I wanted a chance to play and I took that chance even though I knew this was a risk."

Spencer swallows convulsively and finally asks, "What'd you do to your ankle?"

Ryan shrugs. "Dunno. Twisted it, I suppose. It'll heal." Beside knowing he's going to get at least one meal a day, being in the jail has the added benefit of allowing Ryan to rest the ankle, where at the factory he'd be on it all day long. He can't deny, though, that he misses spending the day with the two of them, factory or no.

Brendon frowns. Ryan doesn't want to talk about himself, so he asks, "Everything's well on your end? You got to work in the morning all right?"

They both nod. Brendon says, "One of the girls at the factory, Katie, she's been letting me sleep on her floor. Her parents both have jobs, and it's just the three of them. The place is even smaller than Spence's, but there's floorspace. It's good."

Ryan kind of loves Katie just then. There have been too many nights when he's been terrified Brendon wouldn't show up again in the morning. Spencer, evidently seeing that Ryan needs this, needs to feel connected, tells a funny story about Jackie, and then, all too quickly, time is up.

Ryan hesitates, because he hasn’t got the right to ask, because his father doesn't deserve it, because of a million reasons, but he can't stop himself from looking down and muttering, "Can one of you go check on my dad?"

Neither looks pleased by the prospect, but they both nod. Ryan smiles.

*

Ryan ends up talking to Frank for lack of anything better to do. Frank is a little sprite of a being with more art on his skin than Ryan has ever seen in a book or on a wall. He was in the club that night, evidently more for the music and company than the booze, but evidently that didn't hurt. When they end up in the cell together, says, "You were the guitar player, right?"

They talk about music for a bit, passing the time. Out of the blue, Frank asks, "How old are you?"

Ryan doesn't feel threatened by Frank, but the question is kind of unexpectedly personal. "Why?"

"Because you look about fourteen, and so far as I could tell, you didn't drink a drop, so I'm pretty sure you could get away with probation if you sell it right."

Too tired to be offended by the age estimation, Ryan says, "Sixteen. And I don't drink."

Frank grins, bouncing on his feet a little. He has a lot of energy for someone in jail, Ryan thinks. Frank says, "Well then, let's take advantage of the fact that I've had to defend myself on Jones violation charges more than once."

*

Ryan's trial date had been set at the sentencing for two weeks from that point. According to Frank, that's moving pretty quickly. Ryan asks, "Is that a good sign, or bad?"

Frank makes a face. "Could be either. Depends."

By the time the trial comes, though, Ryan's sore everywhere and exhausted and probably, if he's honest about the situation, sick. It's all he can manage to suppress the cough, and swallowing is pure agony. When he stands, he has to wait quite a while for the world to stop turning. All he wants is to know what is going to happen. He makes himself focus when the judge asks if he has any defenses. Ryan says everything Frank has told him to, start to finish and then waits.

At the table next to him, there is a lawyer for the government, sharp in a grey suit and with words that Ryan has never heard before. Ryan is still in his clothes from the club, the cheap cotton dirty and worn and patched in a number of places. He kind of feels like an idiot for ever believing he had a chance.

*

At first, Ryan doesn't understand the sentence. Then, when parole is explained to him, he asks, "I can go?" still fairly certain he's getting this wrong. It's become hard to concentrate with the headache he has. The officer discharging him sighs, and goes through all the directions again.

The judge had said, "Due to your age and other contributory factors you've introduced into the proceedings, I am reducing your sentence to a year of parole with a juvenile officer."

The officer says, "Nobody's going to hire a kid with papers. Would've been better to give you somewhere to go."

Ryan's sure the officer is right, and it isn't as though getting a job is easy in any case, but he'll figure something out. That's a problem for once he gets outside the jail.

*

He doesn't have money for the bus, so he starts walking. Thankfully, his ankle has healed up enough that he's only sore with the exertion. He has to stop more than once to sit down and catch his breath, to wait for dizziness to pass, which is hard because he can't stop coughing. Ryan has no idea how long it's been when he finally makes it to Spencer's place. He knows he walked over seven of the long blocks, but has lost track of how many short ones he's managed. It doesn't matter.

He knocks, hoping that Jackie is sewing from home today. Sure enough, she opens the door, makes a hurt noise in her throat and says, "Oh goodness, oh Ryan."

He's not sure if she knows where he's been, what Spencer's said. It's so good to see her, Ryan has to hold back a sob that wants to rise up.

Ryan smiles. "Hi Jacks. Can I rest here for a bit?"

She's got her hands on him immediately, pulling him inside, into a hug. He doesn't remember getting to the floor, but he's suddenly there and it seems only right to go to sleep.

*

Ryan blinks awake and cannot remember where he is for the first second of awareness. Then, with an inhalation, the past few days rush together, a string of delirium, of gentle hands and soft voices. Ryan's about to roll over and make himself get up when Spencer asks, "You really awake this time?"

Ryan realizes his head is in Spencer's lap and he scrambles up into a hug. "Sorry."

"For being sick? Or getting arrested?" Spencer asks, holding on tightly.

_For almost getting you locked up._ "Yeah. Resources are short, and all."

Spencer sighs in a way that sounds like he's saying Ryan's name. Ryan ignores it, asks, "Brendon?"

"Picked up a weekend apple-selling gig. He sings ditties to get them sold. They love him."

Ryan believes it. Brendon's voice is pure happiness. He frowns and draws back. "It's Saturday?"

The jail had released Ryan on Tuesday. Spencer asks, "How else would I be here during the day?"

"Spence—"

"I went to Pete. I was planning on negotiating for a portion of what we were owed, but he just handed over the whole fee. And told me that if you got out, to come to him for a job. I told him no more of this, but evidently, when he's not being a nocturnal troublemaker, he runs a haberdashery on Madison. He said he'd find work for you." Spencer smiles a little. "I've used some of it to make sure your dad is eating."

Ryan wants to say thank you, maybe wants to hug Spencer and hold on forever, but is still on the part where he'll be able to eat. Spencer seems to notice, because he lets Ryan think for a bit before saying. "C'mon. Let's get you cleaned up and go visit Brendon. He usually gets a free apple a day."

*

The two of them drop by Brendon's selling area long enough for him to try to squeeze Ryan to death, and to hear some of his more creative advertisements. After that, Spencer walks with Ryan to the haberdashery, where, sure enough, the manager seems to expect Ryan. Ryan does his best not to get distracted by the hats, ranging from practical to entirely frivolous. He is told he can start Monday so long as he takes an advance on salary and buys himself some more suitable clothing.

As such, the next stop is the thrift store, where they manage to find Ryan slacks, a button-down and a vest he can afford and still have money to make it through to the next paycheck. By the time they make their way back to Brendon, he's closing up for the night, apple in hand.

It's cold out and Brendon has spent all day outdoors, so they go to a diner and Brendon uses a fraction of his apple-selling take to buy a cup of coffee so that they can stay for a bit. The three of them share both the apple and the coffee, taking slow bites and even slower sips.

Ryan's pretty sure he needs to go home, to see if his father is even still there, or has moved on. Ryan doesn't want to think about the other possibility. Yes, he should go home and get back to his life. But Brendon and Spencer are sitting on either side of him in the corner booth they'd managed to colonize. They're resting close to him, both of them warm and familiar and perfect.

Spencer's the one to say, "Come back to my place."

Brendon starts, "Your family—"

"Has been trying to get the two of you to abandon your stupid pride for years," Spencer cuts in. "You'll share my blanket. Then Crystal and Jackie can't complain that I'm the only one who doesn't have to share."

"Ah," Ryan says, "we are saving you from eternal nagging."

"Precisely," Spencer agrees. Brendon gives him the last bite of the apple.

*

The blanket is only really big enough for two people, which means that to stay warm, they have to tuck tightly into each other. They put Ryan in the middle the first night, both of them seemingly needing to confirm that he's come back.

Ryan burrows down between them and kind of hopes he'll get to keep this even if there, one day, are more blankets to go around.


End file.
